St. Paul daily globe., 1887-05-22

ing taxes upon llSelI DeaullIul cOlOrS-
colorS which seem mockery at such
time. OF the three, only the lily is
ever pure and stainless, as the human
soul should be; and, also, it is only the
lily which fades, droops and decays in
death, like the human body. And, so
arguing, Bernardino won his desire of
the great sculptor. TornellO.
Bernardina was born among the bleak
northern quarrieS where there is only
the absence of art to make one think of
art. There is nothing in his babyhOod
to compensate him for the dirt and
debris of the QuarrieS, and the inceSSant
din and clatter of the drills, SledgeS and
picks of the Quarrymen, but the few
mean little vines and flowers which
grew in Out-Of-the-way hooks and inches
where the destroying havoc of the toll
erS did not wreak deSolatiOn. The other
little folk of the quarries were as rough
and coarse as those from whose loinS
they were sprung. and their boisterouS
noise hurt BernardinO even more than
he was hurt by the noise of the quarry
men. They said and did things which
panied and distressed him, and so he
avoided them and was always apart by
himself.
Loving the vines and flowers, which,
with the bright sunlight and the ever
happiness. he began wondering if he
could not shape their counterparts out
of the fragments of stone which the
QuarrymaSter condemned as worthless
AT last he tried to cut a bit of marble
into resemblance of cluster of vine
leaves. He had only rude chiSel which
one of the iron-wOrkerS had hammered
out of piece of broken drill, but he
succeeded so well that it was easy to
guess what his intention had been. He
was then but little lad of eight years,
and yet he was already an unconscious
wOrShiper at the shrine of beauty. In a
few years more he had attained fair
degree of cleVerneSS. so much so that he
could no longer endure the drudgery of
the quarrieS, where there was only
noise and dirt and lewd jests and
coarse swearing: so, one night, he stole
softly away and walked on and on,
never once stopping except for an oc-
caSiOnal rest or to beg chunk of brown
bread and cup of water, until he was
safe in the City of Lilies. Once in
Florence he was content. despite his
absolute poverty. He knew that no one
would ever come there who had known
him in the QuarrieS, and there was moth
ing else which he feared or dreamed.
When he fed from the mountains he
had thought that all would be well with
him if he could only reach Florence.
just how to put himself in a position of
comfort he did not know. That there
was way he had no doubt, if he could
only find it. He had never yet been con-
fronted with failure, because he had
never yet attempted anything beyond
his easy reach. But to be young and
hungry and alone in Florence, with no
one to whom he could turn for bread,
La Inv inh l,n
earn bread, that was quite another mat
ter. Still, since he had not yet learned
that there was so grave and dreadful
thing as disappointment in the world,
he, i'll his utter ignorance and uncon-
SciouSneSS of life, felt that he was ready
to proceed by whatever pathway was
opened to him, never dreaming but that
some pathway would be opened to him.
His bright, handsome face, so young,
innocent and delicate; his great frank
brown eyes and long, jetty hair; his ex-
qulSlte, shape and graceful carriage, and,
more than all, his divine smile and muSi-
cal voice, won for him admiration and
attention, and so made his way easier.
NOOne refused him the little he wanted
i'll the way of food and drink. and
neither was he refused place to sleep:
but when he talked of sustaining him
self by means of the little he knew about
art they laughed at him-nOt deriSively,
but good-naturedly and out of pity.
That, they told him, was the easiest of
all ways of starving. To make art pay,
they say. one must have fortune to
start with. Bernardino sighed. He had
thought all along that art was enough.
But to need a fortune at the outset, that
was very hard.
IF you were only in Rome now, in
stead of in Florence, you might, as
helper to some sculptor, support your
self. There is no other way. But here
III Florence, even that is impossible"
said an old wrinkled and griZZled dealer
in brOnZeS and marbles.
"Altro.'' cried strong voice in dis
gust, who dares speak such vile SLAM
der against Florence, the very mother
of art. When has she ever denied her
artists living?"
"Tornello!" whispered the loungers
in the shop, staring at the newcomer.
"Tornello-the sculptor"